


Everything Would Become Easy

by howverypeculiar



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Bit of casework, Classical Music, Closeted John Watson, Declarations Of Love, Don't worry too much, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Internalised Homophobia, John Plays the Piano, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Past Abuse, Reichenbach Never Happened, Sherlock's Violin, canon-compliant (sort of), mary is barely in it, ratings will increase later, she ain't nice, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-07 08:49:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12229587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howverypeculiar/pseuds/howverypeculiar
Summary: More than John’s love for classical music is revealed when Sherlock sees him in a situation he’d never deduced would happen. There are more consequences than are imaginable as a result.'If I could but know his heart, everything would become easy.' ~ Marianne Dashwood, Sense and Sensibility.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well well, here we are!
> 
> I hope you enjoy the first chapter as much as I've enjoyed writing. It's been an absolute blast, and I should think it will continue to be all the way til the end.
> 
> If you'd like to listen along to the music, I'll be enclosing the title of each piece that appears in the story in this notes section. In this chapter is Brahms Concerto Opp. 77 - Sherlock's part is around six and a half minutes in.
> 
> I really can't give enough thanks to @yaycoffee (both on tumblr and ao3) for her truly fantastic support, and generally being the best beta-reader ever - thank you so much!
> 
> Enjoy :-)

The occasional eight-bar tune pierces the monotonous tap-tap-tapping of John’s fingers on his laptop. Case write-ups are nowadays more of a chore, a ‘should’ rather than a ‘want’. He used to enjoy it tremendously, but the feedback he has received of late - or lack thereof in fact - has done the opposite of inspire him. Sherlock calling his articles ‘as mundane as a rich tea biscuit’ sort of drew the line. It takes more effort each time to be bothered.

Last week’s kidnapping turned out to simply be a ‘misunderstanding of custodies’. So that was worthwhile. His fingers trickle out: _“I thought she was a nice woman, to be honest. Sherlock seemed to think otherwise, of course. He’d worked it out in minutes, it was beyond me, truly remarkable, what a strange man…”_

The taps become slower and more sparse. It’s the same waffle each time he has to write--outline very vaguely what he actually contributed then spout for two-hundred-plus words about his companion’s inexplicable intellect. It feels so easy to praise Sherlock, with his brains and his agility and his mystique. He wishes it was easier to give these compliments to himself.

As his work grinds to a solemn halt, the white noise grows forward in his ears. Swellings and twinkling vibrato swirl around the air inside this dimly lit, warm room. The purple-reds and golds in the decor seem to glimmer that much brighter when Sherlock plays his incandescent waltzes. Some peculiar feeling resonates inside his bones, a sensation that has not come to him for some time, being roused and rectified by Sherlock.

John recognises this tune. He has heard Sherlock play it before on occasion, but his main memory of classical violin pieces is much older, his relationship with music much more complex than his relationship with Sherlock. It is of secondary school concerts, where he would perform intricate piano classics while others would strum sultry guitars or whistle into flutes before he would marvel at a beautiful violinist and their melodies. However apathetic John feels, his mind is now aroused by the current moment of luxury. In the present, he closes his eyes for just a brief moment, counting the _one-two-three_ as if to lull himself into hebetude.

“You’re putting me off,” Sherlock mumbles lowly, his still playing becoming less prominent. Peace could only last so long, John guesses. He opens his sticky eyes and gruffly clears his throat.

“Sorry. It’s good.” Something by Brahms. “Brahms?”

A discordant note precedes a halt in the music, then Sherlock drops his arms, bow scraping the floor, disrupted. “Ahem, er, yes--how did you know?” He looks at John, surprised and confused as he furrows his eyebrows.

“Well, I mean…common knowledge, isn’t it? Concerto Op. 77 in D?” John’s heart begins to race. He clears his throat again before swivelling back to his desk, shaking his head fiercely and returning to his blog drabble as if nothing had ever happened. 

~

Sherlock has the right mind to retort, but no words come. Instead, he simply exhales, then returns to the bow, stroking its hairs free of dust. John’s musical knowledge is more than Sherlock ever expected. That being said, his expectations were not high in the first place.

He feels somewhat deflated inside. John acted as if he perceived him as stupid. Of course, it’s common knowledge. John is an intelligent man, and he has just insulted him. How childish. He lifts the chin rest once more and starts bowing mindlessly again.

With this, Sherlock goes back into his mind and resumes his playing. By rote, he plays the melody, but his attention is focused on John’s comment, in which he very rightly named this rather obscure piece of music. Only someone as invested in music as himself, perhaps, would know to identify that tune. In the four years they have known one another, Sherlock has not deduced this dimension about John--his perception of what is ‘common knowledge’. John seems to be so simple, so predictable--but he always manages to surprise him.

His thoughts distract him. He abruptly stops playing and stands lumpily in the middle of the room. “Erm,” he murmurs, “What’s for dinner?”

“Pfft… Pasta? With some kind of…sauce?” John is forcing his eyes to remain open as he stares blankly at the silver screen.

“Okay. See you in a minute.” In a moment of unease, Sherlock figures he could buy some privacy by way of escaping the awkwardness. John seems to be holding himself stiffer than normal and refusing to meet Sherlock’s eyes in conversation. Sherlock can’t work out why John would be in this ‘off’ mood. Did he do something wrong? That seems to be an uncommon feeling, one he is certainly unfamiliar with. Thinking about it further, he could perhaps impress his friend by making dinner--that is a rare occurrence. He wonders what is so compelling to him that he will actually leave the room in order to avoid this unknown embarrassment. Widening his eyes and sighing deeply with confusion, Sherlock stomps over to the kitchen to make ‘pasta with some kind of sauce’. 

A while later, dinner is placed in front of John, who is boggling at the fact Sherlock has actually cooked dinner. Sherlock decides not to take this as an insult, given the placidity of his friend and the sporadic nature of this gesture. It even smells good. “Ta. Parmesan?” John asks as casual as he can sound.

“Mm-hm.” Sherlock swivels back to the kitchen and reaches into the cheese box (next to the toes) in the fridge for the parmesan, then procures a grater from the drawer of cutlery, narrowly avoiding being scraped by a scalpel. He grates enough cheese for each plate onto a wooden board - not contaminated by flesh, he hopes...there were those ears yesterday, he thinks he used Fairy liquid - before scattering some on each serving. He plops himself opposite his blogger and flicks open the leather case of his phone next to him.

“Thank you. For making this. Much appreciated” He doesn’t look across the table; he nods and inhales deeply, nose wrinkled.

“Fine.” Sherlock looks pensively at John for some moments, then turns his attention back to work and food.

John’s diction is clipped and breathy, usually an indicator of something being not quite right. This, thankfully, is a fairly common occurrence, and not dissimilar from Sherlock’s usual tone. Picking up his fork, he begins eating, hungrily.

They dine in silence, Sherlock with a fork in his right hand and his phone in his left, thumb-scrolling down his inbox. On occasion, he glances over to look at John, who seems to be gratefully stuffing his dinner down. That’s nice to see. He pulls a concentrated sort of expression when he’s eating, Sherlock’s always noticed that-- maybe it’s the creases that striate his forehead, or the rounded angle of his clenched jaw, peppered with stubble. With John’s hair being a bit longer and in need of a trim nowadays, little wispy fronds fall down his forehead, which is also...pleasing. John's voice breaks the easy silence and calls his focus back to work, gesturing towards the phone in his hand with his fork. “Anything worth mentioning?”

“Theft. Ooh, it’s a morgue. Three suspects, two of them male…”

“Hope you’re not one of them. Notorious for nicking body parts. Coming to think of it, didn’t see Jonty Roddick’s toes at his burial the other week.” John chuckles dryly, without smiling. Sherlock feels a smile pull at a corner of his lips. 

He carries on scrolling-- “Hm, arson- oh, hang on, it was the temperamental sister-in-law…”

“Are you going to just choose one? You’re bloody picky. People need help, you need cash, I need more followers.” He tries to snatch the phone, grabbing at it, but Sherlock’s grip tightens to the point that the tips of his fingers whiten with the effort. “Oi, give me the bloody phone--” John grunts with intolerance as Sherlock keeps the firm grasp for no other reason but to annoy his friend. 

Sherlock can’t help but giggle throatily, mouth closed but smiling widely as John now stands and leans over the table, shoving it audibly. John’s high-pitched snicker spreads an effervescence around Sherlock’s body, and he can’t think why. The distraction of the feeling makes him loosen his grip on the phone - John is easy to take it from his hand and thumb the screen, sighing.

“Here. Murder. Your favourite,” he pointed out, droll and exasperated. “Nikolai Mazur was stabbed to death five times in his abdomen on Friday at 9:10pm. It’s one of four. Thomasina Oliver, Otto Pick, Joseph Yourrell and Keith Adeyemi. Chew on that.”

John holds the phone out to Sherlock, who snatches it back with stroppiness. He latches onto heavy eye contact for longer than is normal, brushing the front of his shirt flat and holding the phone below the table so John can’t see it. The least he can do is gain back a tad of ground, of dignity. “It’s not Keith. He has tachycardia, therefore palpitations and shakes all the time. Wouldn’t handle the intensity of stabbing. Besides, the wound is from a kitchen knife and he lives in shared accommodation. Easy access? I should think not...Thomasina said she was in bed--she was telling the truth, her son has cerebral palsy and she’s a single full-time mum slash carer. That leaves Otto and Joseph. They been questioned yet?”

There is quite a long pause. “Erm,” John replies with a strain in his voice, “No. How did you, er…know? …All that?” John’s face shows he is vexed, possibly impressed. Knowing John, it is majoritively the latter. Despite his love of the praise, he doesn’t like to white-lie extensively. He keeps his voice and head low, looking at the phone and admits: “I talked to Gav--Gra--Greg. Greg. I rang him. I was intrigued by this one. You know my penchant.”

John seems disappointed in his eyes and mouth, and Sherlock doesn’t like that. “Okay, well…we taking it?”

“Don’t see why not. Yourrell first, he’s early twenties. He works in The Royal Indian.” A throaty groan. “Cockfosters.”

“How many-“

“Fifteen. _Fif-teen_ tube stops. On a Friday night. With a change. Answer me this, John - why does Lestrade give us half-decent cases such as this one only to tell us they’re a bloody mile away?”

He locks his phone and gets up bouncily, despite leaving his dinner virtually uneaten. “Oh well. Needs must. Tomorrow though. I’ll do Otto on Monday. Frankly, I cannot be arsed. But people need me, I suppose. As you most eloquently put.” 

~

Sherlock seems spritely and fired up by the promise of a new case. Back to normal, then. John really finds Sherlock acting more like an adolescent than the true grown man he actually is. It’s hard to be conventional when you’re Sherlock Holmes. With a tut and a head shake, he plods to the kitchen with the pasta dishes and half-heartedly slaps them both into the dishwasher.

The prior exchanging-of-words-turned-grapple making him feel discontented and wanting something rather than joyous, John returns to the blog, reassuming his prior position and begins tap-tap-tapping once more. He tries to stay focused, yet he can’t seem to shake Sherlock’s aura - the ghost of fingerprints around his wrist, the scent of his shampoo lingering in his nostrils.

Into John’s ears and thoughts flows again the transcendent whine of the violin, or, rather, the violinist, starting to play again. This excerpt of Violin Concerto Opp. 77 in D sounds different to how John has heard it before, much slower and more graceful that he remembers, and he knows it is because Sherlock is the one playing. Something about the music mixes with the heaviness in his soul, characterising the emotion. He doesn’t know how to feel about this. Some things should be expressed, sung out - but sometimes, people turn against those who do so. Through life, John had been taught to keep silent, no matter how important the issue was to himself. So that’s what he’s been doing all this time. Right now, he feels like the best thing to do is escape the situation, detract from these thoughts. So, he sighs, “I’m going for a shower,” and then he’s out of the room. 

~

Sherlock watches John exit the room, huffing as he goes. Why should he be so upset now? They’ve had dinner - hell, Sherlock _made bloody dinner_ \- they’ve got a decent-sounding case, and Sherlock is being playful rather than irate and/or miserable, his usual state. He’s content, but...uncomfortable with his contentedness. He deduces that it’s this - Sherlock’s mood is unusual, off-putting almost...but he cannot think why. It’s not something he’s accustomed to; he knows if anything, it made him uneasy enough to want to leave the room, which is very strange indeed. Overwhelmed is the word. 

 

Sherlock continues steadily playing the piece of music that John recognises knowing he will still hear it from the bathroom; maybe he will like the background noise. He plays with more verve at this idea. Every one of his fingers on the strings quiver with vibrato, the bows long and lyrical. He allows his legs to carry him closer to the bathroom, unaware at first that he’s moving, but eager for John to listen. He wonders if it’s just the music he wants him to hear. The space around him glows ever more, the dim, orange fireplace and the glistening mahogany mantel. Sherlock takes a second to appreciate being around here, in this flat - his home. Each note of the tune spreads a certain ardour down his body, through his bloodstream, down his spine, the knowing that John is appreciative of him and that he is on the other side of that door, listening.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter time again!
> 
> Yes, it's a day late, I know...I'll be more on-the-ball next time, real life is manic :P. The piece mentioned in this chapter is Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2, Chopin. Again, my utmost gratitude, @yaycoffee for the constant beta, advice, shoulder to cry on and support :))) Enjoy Chapter Two, loves <3

It’s not Angelo’s, but the food is palatable enough to Sherlock to bear being there while waiting. Waiting is tedious. His legs bounce impatiently beneath the table as his fingers skitter along the top, rushing the time away.

Waiting is the right word. Sherlock can’t exactly swoop in with his coat and cheekbones and ask the man if he’d stabbed someone the other night. Best to stay inconspicuous. He and John are close to this one. Joseph Yourrell - suspected murderer, and incidentally, a barman at the bog-standard Indian restaurant-pub in Cockfosters. The tarka dahl almost makes the fifteen tube stops worth it. Yourrell has been cleaning a pint glass with the same greying tea towel for a good three minutes while sweatily chattering to women double his age across the bar. Easily he calculates they’re here for no other reason than to get away from their husbands, and, judging by the barbecue sauce under one of them’s fingernails, they wolfed kebabs before coming to this higher-end joint.

Sherlock and John eat in companionable silence. Sherlock isn’t completely delighted by this case, which is worth no more than a dull ‘six’ - a murder, yes, but a one-dimensional one. Yourrell has the distinct talent of turning murder into something unexciting. He hadn’t any interesting motives, not even any body parts hidden under the floorboards. Anyhow, John seems harmoniously satisfied with his IPA and a prawn biryani. It would simply be rude to interrupt his pleasure.

John’s eyes are elsewhere, tracing the grouting in the stone floor. He fingers a napkin splattered in fluorescent ghee, flicks the cool, wet glass of beer. Sherlock regards John with a mixture of fascination and confusion. There are downy, white hairs dusted down the sides of John’s neck--have they always been there? The whites of John’s eyes are flecked with red threads, the skin below them puffed and grey--possibly due to frequent alcohol consumption. Perhaps he isn’t sleeping as he should. John is ever so adamant about sleeping like a normal person. He wonders why he should notice these things. He has always stood by the fact that John really does have an aesthetically pleasing face. The innate John-quality of his face equates to it being perfect. But why should his brain be noticing these things now, on a boring case in a rotting pub? He searches for a deeper meaning. He skims through the possible options, eyes closed, just on the precipice between presence and mind-palace deduction. He can feels his fingers twitch, gently at first, his forehead creasing, until everything tenses... _ah_. There is a particular option that intrigues him, which sets a warm weight atop his heart. His muscles retract. It feels...curious indeed. 

A fallen tray of cutlery startling him back to consciousness, Sherlock shakes his head as if ridding himself of that inner warmth that distracts him from working. He looks back over to the bar area. Yourrell’s rodent-like face comes into view when for once he isn't trying to chat anyone up. “Ugh, right, I can’t bear it any longer. Everyone in here is so moronic. I’m going to talk to him now - remember the plan. Try your best not to earwig--at least, not so obviously.” As he rises, a few grains of rice fall onto the floor with the movement. He waves his hand in a spiral in the general direction of John’s beer, his fingers like a spider’s legs. “Enjoy your…thing. I’ll tell you when.”

“What-- oh, okay.” John takes a mouthful of curry and stays seated.

At the bar, Sherlock speaks with authority to the stubbly-faced, tired-looking Yourrell. The man can’t be older than twenty-one. “Hello there,” Sherlock says, his affected friendliness belied by his straight-backed posture and the way he refuses to let Yourrell’s eyes leave his own.

“Good evening, any drinks for you, sir?” His voice is almost automated, like a robot’s. What is unmistakeable, however, is the thick Cockney twang of his accent.

“A chat, rather, if you wouldn’t mind. You familiar with Nik Mazur?” Sherlock leans sleekly on the bar, pressing his palms together in front of his lips, eyes narrowed.

“Erm, no, sorry mate.” Visibly discomforted, his eyes drift somewhere behind the bar to grab a fresh cloth. Yourrell is lying. Sherlock loves a terrible liar! His inward laughter pulls a smile to the corner of his mouth.

“Oh really? Let me ask you, _mate_ …” This is going to be interesting. “Where were you on Monday night?

“Erm…er, I was here. Working.” He says the last word to the floor, scratching the back of his head. Sherlock finds this hilarious fun. He can't blow his cover, though, so remains poker-faced.

“Oh, I see. Interesting, considering one of your acquaintances here tells me you’ve been here all week?” He leans even more authoritatively onto the countertop, sliding his hands over it, oppressive. “I wonder why?”

“Oh, yeah, you’re right! Haha, yeah I was at home with my mum,” he points to his head, hands shaking violently and breathing quickly, “She gets these migraines—“

“Joseph, I’m afraid you’re a suspect in a case currently in court—“ Sherlock tries his best to quicken his words so as not to be interrupted, yet this is futile. The women around who had cleared the way before are now leaning in, heady-scented cleavage and glittering cheekbones in full effect. It's putting him off. He tries his best to ignore them; he can hear one whisper to another, “He’s lovely isn't he?” and the other replying “Phwoar, yeah, that hair...I’d take him any day, I tell y’! Sorry, Rob, you're being replaced!” 

_Piece it together...only a matter of time_ … he is losing control of this man and this situation.

~

Back at his table, John watches Yourrell from behind as Sherlock interrogates him. Spying furtively, he can see Yourrell’s hand slip under the bar, reaching for something small and metallic.

_Shit. It’s a gun._

John is aware that all is about to go south very quickly. His knees ache to rip out from under the table; they shift up and down, getting up and then backtracking, his brain telling him to move. Then, he’s on his feet without realising.

His fork clangs on the ceramic plate beneath it, and his eyes flicker left and right in surprise, galvanised by adrenaline. His first instinct is to go to Sherlock, and tackle this criminal as they always do--together. Before he can catch up, though, his eyes lock with Sherlock’s, which he can see from across the room. His hands make an X--the indication to stay put, knowing his companion wants to follow him. He has a momentary thought of _‘What is he playing at?!’_ , but decides to let him go, reluctantly.

John whips his phone out from his back pocket and, while keeping Sherlock in the corner of his eye, hurriedly texts Lestrade. Simply, he puts, “Got him, everything’s mad, help”. _Probably not the most informative text he’s ever sent_ , he thinks. As an impromptu plan B, as some attempt to garner attention, John quickly takes a run at the bar area, popping himself promptly onto a bar stool. Manic, he uses his best television presenter voice to gather as much attention as he can. He breaks into their placid small talk conversations, breathless: “HELLO!! YOU ALRIGHT, LADIES?” He prays that the crowd doesn’t divert their attention, and also that Sherlock will come out in one piece at the end of the night.

“Er, yeah? You look a bit flustered, love.” The lady with the largest diamond rock on her finger is probably right. He feels a vibration in his pocket, and pulls out his phone to a text alert saying “We’re coming’. _Thank god_. A bloke in the back of the room shouts at him for blocking the telly, to which John raises an apologetic hand, but doesn’t move from his contorted position. John hears the man mumble ‘tosser’, and chooses to ignore it.

“Oh, yeah, no problem, I am _fine_. Nice night, isn’t it?!?” He could feel his innards curling up into themselves. To his right, he hears a sharp, hoarse “Oi, what you chattin’, fam?”

Then before he can process it, Yourrell bolts, agile yet fearful. Sherlock looks frantic, curls bouncing about his cheek as he spins on his heel and exits the restaurant after him at lightning speed. The squeaky click of the soles of his shoes follow the clumsier, clunkier ones of Yourrell’s. 

_Normal, act normal_. Trying to buy more time, in anticipation of the police turning up, John knows he needs to keep the pub’s focus on himself, not on what is going on outside. He twists his body painfully further to blockade the audience’s view of the madman and the murderer. A cataract of questions and small talk tumble, muddled, out of his brain. “What you up to, then? Ooh, you’ve got some lovely beads. My mum had some of them. Do you have a mum? I mean, of course you do—“

While this agonised chatter continues, he spots for a moment in the corner of his eye the piano. A piano! “Fancy some entertainment, guys?”

Almost tripping over with haste and panic, trying to ignore the two truculent, shouting men down the street, and especially desperately trying to divert the pub’s attention, John quickly hops down from his bar stool, nearly knocking it over in the process. Searching for something, anything, he takes a run at the two-foot-tall stage (if it could be called that) where the piano is sitting in its out-of-place grandeur. 

Creaking, he sits at the pokey mahogany stool. John is surprised by the beauty of the instrument in this shabby little pub, vines and flowers carved into the wood. He lifts the bench seat for sheet music but-- _damn it_ \--nothing. He plays a quick scale, buying a bit more time; he hasn't done this in years. "What do we like then?" he shouts over the crowd, relieved as the heads turn his way rather than to the window where, on the other side, Sherlock is currently grappling with Yourrell. John notices the gun on the pavement ( _that’s a relief_ ), lying next to the illuminated iPhone screen, hoping that Sherlock has managed to call the Met. John is glad about this--had John not texted Greg, it’s good to know that there’s a backup plan.

Nocturne Op. 9, No. 2. He remembers it well enough from Year Seven; he actually performed it in school assembly once, under pressure by his music teacher. Jesus, that was a long time ago. However, once you’ve mastered something, you can never lose your grip, right?

And so it begins. The first few notes are barely audible, the goings-on at the tables far too exciting. John struggles to find the correct fingering--he notices his own shakiness over the keys, fumbling and forgetting which finger goes where, crisscrossing his hands and applying too much pressure on the keys.Then, when the body of the piece flows in, filling out the gaps, the silence in the room falls slowly. As he plays, his confidence grows--the notes he plays become stronger and more confident; he finds the techniques that come flooding back to him after all this time. The melody circulates and fills the room with an effervescence, driving the room to a havana of luscious sounds. 

~

There’s a quietening from outside, too. What was once a chat-turned-interrogation-turned-fight is now a man lying on paving stones with a bloody nose. Sherlock turns his head towards the pub, at first searching for John's face but captivated by the beautiful resonance. When he sees who is playing, he may as well have been the one batty with a head injury. It’s not even the playing that is the most extraordinary thing. It’s beautiful, yes--but it’s the fact that, he’d--never, ever, _ever_ deduced this. Didn’t even clock that John had a music taste that wasn't the Top 40. And now John’s surprising knowledge of Brahms yesterday makes a whole lot more sense.

Fascinating! Sherlock is fascinated, but that feeling swims around in his brain among the pleasant heaviness of classical music like this. The most luxurious, decadent melody, in a pub in bustling, raucous central London…and for some reason, there is John Watson. Grumpy, greying, solid John Watson, who is the last person he’d expect to be sitting on an ancient piano, playing Chopin as if he had been doing it for years. Sherlock is surprised by his own miscalculations. Even after all this time, John Watson remains a mystery.

He hadn’t even realised that he’d been walking closer towards the stage until he realises that he is now just a few metres from it, where John Watson is playing Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 9, No. 2. His playing is rusty, missing the odd note and skewing the time signature for a few bars, but even these missteps seem to make the whole affair ever more curiously alluring. There’s something in it that he simply can’t put his finger on, again, such a rarity, but it’s there and it’s…beautiful. Right now, he couldn’t care less about any case he’s ever solved. The only thing that matters is watching John’s hands over the keys, his body slowly rise and fall with the swells in the music--the passion and effort on his face as if he were playing at the Royal Albert Hall rather than a grotty pub in Cockfosters.

He watches, open-mouthed, John’s fingers marching over the keys and each note ascending into the atmosphere like curling smoke. The arc of John’s back and the profile of his face-- tendrils of silver winding over his forehead creases of concentration, just like he’d noticed a million times before. And then that warm feeling suspends above his heart again.

~

John has forgotten himself. Right now, as the last eight bars approach, his main feeling is relief that the piece is almost over, that everything will go back to normal, back to the tapping of laptop keys and the boiler whirring and the muffled London chatter. He must have been playing for, what, four minutes now? But the silky, luscious waltz makes him feel so alive and so, so at home. It always has, since his childhood.

His dad. There was no escaping him, the constant tuttings and discriminations. John distinctly recalls his father’s vehement tone, and himself repeating over and over, aggressively defiant: “Please! Harry’s allowed - why can’t _I_ , Dad?”

Then he could feel his dad’s tight, unforgiving grip, prising his fingers away from the keys, then the force from behind, his father’s palm striking spiky and cruel on his back. It would knock the wind out of him. He’d bring his face to within centimetres of his own. “Harry is a girl. Now, are you gonna get your kit on for rugby, or should I get you a feather boa instead there, Liberace?”

John could never reply. Instead he could only ever sit on the floor, on the landing next to his beloved piano that only Harry was permitted to play. It was cold and sad and so, so lonely. Often he’d run to his room and punch the inside his door until his knuckles bled and scream and cry and tell himself he was useless. He'd have to wait, until the front door banged shut and the sound of tyres on the concrete was far in the distance. There were usually thirty or forty luxurious minutes, while his dad would go out when he could cherish the ability to play and harmonise with the instrument, absorbing its sound and feeling, 

The metallic clanking of a cocktail being shaken brings him back into the present moment. He’s lost himself playing. His fingers find the last three long, gentle notes, and then all is still. John braves looking up, around the pub, and everyone is moved. There are pairs of eyes focused on the stage, other pairs of eyes on him. There are those sitting down, who are staring unblinkingly in pure awe, and one gentleman is openly weeping into his beef jalfrezi. Even the few coquettish women who were chatting up Joseph Yourrell before are welling up, hands on their perfumed clavicles. Then, he sees Sherlock--his face smoothed and less angular, eyes directly on his own, with an expression soft and open, as if every fibre of his body has loosened. John’s heart hums with a knowing that Sherlock reserves this expression only for him.

A smile flickers across his face. John rises clumsily and rapidly so as not to draw any further attention. It’s no use, though, because people are still applauding and there’s even a hen-do of five or so ladies chanting “Encore! Encore!” in one corner. He breathes a quick “Thank you,” and trots off as if nothing had ever happened. The applause is loud and more than he expected, given how out of practice and rusty he is. He does not smile, nor keep his head up - instead, he nods calmly and turns away, where he meets Sherlock’s eyes at the edge of the stage once again.

“I had no idea, John. That was...lovely.” Sherlock breathes, scratching the back of his head.

“No problem. Oh, I mean, er…thanks? Jesus, I haven’t played in years. Last time was at my grandmother’s funeral!” He shuffles from foot to foot, bashful as he chuckles quietly through a smile. 

“Ah. Yes, it’s--really quite astounding. Beautiful, even.” Sherlock looks relieved as a taxi appears down the street, hailing it effortlessly. John reckons it’s just a good excuse to look away. Turning back around, he asks, “Are we off?” His breaths rather resemble sighs, deep and cool and shaking. His eyes move around until settling to gaze uncomfortably at the starless night sky.

“As long as you’re sorted. Get anything out of him?” They saunter away from it all, the rowdiness of shouting and flirting and chinking glasses and plates, blue lights flashing beside them. John feels himself relax into the rhythm of another murder solved, enjoying Sherlock’s steadfast presence by his side. John watches with a warmth in his heart as Sherlock turns his coat collar up and lifts a hand for a taxi.

“His alibi’s the size of a mosquito. Basically confessed to everything. He’ll go to court next Tuesday--won't stand a chance.”

“Oh. Well. Alright then.” They take a taxi home in near silence.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me over on tumblr @howverypeculiar. Much love <3


End file.
